Marco Dressed In Blood
by quint0es
Summary: Jean Kirschtein is no ordinary guy - he hunts dead people.
1. Chapter 1

**Yeehaw. This fanfic is based around _Anna Dressed In Blood_. It's a great book and everybody needs to read it.**

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**Prologue**

The full moon hangs menacingly above the pitch black landscape unravelling before me. I press my foot hard against the gas and roar down the empty country road. It's not that I'm scared of the dark; it's more about what's in it.

I let out a breath that I had no conscious clue I was holding. The headlights of my Chevrolet light up too little of the darkness before me, and I find myself straining to see even a few feet in front of the hood of the car. Long story short, it's not my car. A neighbour let me borrow her after a few rigorous months of moving the lawn, clearing the gutters, and painting his house.

Totally worth it though, because now I was flying down a deserted road in a hotrod. I could probably pick up a few chicks with this baby, too.

But that wasn't why I was here. That wasn't why I was speeding towards a dark shadow that had been conjured up on the side of the road.

It was _him._

He looks like he belongs in a low-budget remake of _Grease. _His slicked back hair and leather jacket do him no favours. He holds a Zippo in his hand and flicks in time with a tune playing in his head.

The hitchhiker holds up a single thumb, and I pull over, opening my passenger side door. He slides in a little less gracefully than his 50's counterpart, but at least he's in. He closes the door, and makes himself comfortable, legs spread out and a cigarette lit.

There was no backing out now. I feel like I have just signed my own death certificate.

I pull back onto the road with a turn of the wheel, and we're off. He seems nervous; he fidgets too much, and it's insanely distracting. Finally, he speaks.

It's only a murmur, but I can hear him clearly. "Thank you."

I don't respond, because there's nothing to say. I don't feel right, and I have a sneaking suspicious that tonight's going to go down horribly.

"My girl," he says as he reclines further, one hand behind his head, and one to help puff his cigarette. "She's been waitin' for me."

"She sounds nice." I grit my teeth.

"Yeah." And that's it. Like that, our meek conversation is over. I tighten the grip on the steering wheel and ease up on the pedal. He notices.

"Something wrong, friend?"

Everything is wrong. I'm beginning to have second thoughts about this. The sound of tires crushing rock fuel my anxiety, and I slow down further. "This isn't my car. I can't really afford to pay for the damage if you decide to throw me off the bridge."

I look directly at him, and in my peripheral vision I can see the bridge closing in. I feel trapped. He knows I'm onto him.

Instantly, his features change. His hair is dishevelled and his cigarette has fallen from his lips. His pale skin is riddled with blueish-black veins, and his dark, sunken eyes have begun to ooze a substance similar to tar. Now he's just a mask of rotten skin, teeth like dull stone. He might be grinning – but it might just be the effect of his lips peeling off.

A few yards from the start off the bridge, he lunges forward and grabs the wheel, giving it a sharp tug and making the car fishtail uncontrollably.

This was why I came here. I move from town to town, stalking only the most infamous spooks the states have to offer. The Hitchhiker was no different. It had been said he's the cause of more than thirty deaths along this one stretch of road, and I believe the rumours. As charming as this guy was when he didn't have a stench similar to a rotten carcass, he could also change in an instant. I know that now.

I realise that if I don't act soon I'll be nothing but one of his kind, I lean down and grope blindly for my blade. He speaks then, his words coming out more as a string of violent hisses than anything else.

"It's not so bad, being dead."

"What about the stench?" I grunt as his talon-like nails dig into the flesh of my arms. I fight back, flailing my legs awkwardly until my shoe connects to his stomach and I use my entire body to kick him back against his door. I finally get a good grip on my knife handle, and as I lunge across the interior towards him, I slice. The blade cuts perfectly through his abdomen, and he lets out a pained grunt. I manage to quickly get the car back under control, and when I look back at him, my eyes widen.

He's back to what he was; all clear skin and green eyes,

"I worked all Summer for this money," he says softly. "My girl will kill me if I lose it."

My heart is beating a mile a minute, my hands twitching on the wheel and struggling to keep the car going straight,

"Your girl will forgive you. I promise." He doesn't have a chance to respond as I dig my blade into his flesh again, this time making a deep slice across his throat. A deep, black gash opens, and his brings his hands up to it, as if trying to close it again, but he can't. Black fluid oozes down his shirt and vintage jacket, and soon, he begins to shrivel.

He disappears soon enough, and it's like nothing even happened. There's no stain on the seat from where he was – it's completely dry. I slow the car and pull over to the side of the road. Pulling on the handbrake, I step out and inspect the damage. There's nothing asides from a melted tire, and it stinks like all hell.

My first thought is – my neighbour is going to _kill _me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry it's so short, and sorry it took forever. I have a lot of stuff going on at school. Peace.**

It's past midnight when I finally pull into our driveway. Mr. Smith is probably awake, messy and full of straight coffee, watching with me wary eyes cruising down the street. But he doesn't expect the car back until morning. If I manage to get up early enough, I can take the car down to the shop and replace the tires before he knows any different.

As the headlights slice through the yard and shower the front of the house in white, I see two green dots: the eyes of my mom's cat. When I reach the front door, it has disappeared from the window. He'll tell her that I'm home. Levi is the cat's name. It's a vicious, unruly thing that doesn't care much for me. I don't care much for it either. Levi has this weird habit of pulling all the hair off its tail, leaving little tuffs of black in its wake. But my mom, Hanji, likes to have a cat around. She says it's because, like most children, they can see and hear things that are already dead. Definitely a handy trick, when you live with us.

I toe my shoes off and tiredly climb the stairs, two at a time. I'm dying for a shower – I want to get that mossy, rotten feeling off my wrist and shoulder. And I want to check my dad's athame and clean off whatever black stuff might be on the edge.

At the top of the stairs, I trip against a box and say, 'Shit!' a little too loudly. I really should know better. My house is a literal maze of packed boxes. My mom is a scientist, and she likes to bring back these grotesque, alien-like creatures home to study and insists that she keep them safe in a barrage of boxes. In the dark I can see the label; I just tripped over 'Rabbit Skeleton – Acid (2)'.

I pad into the bathroom and pull my knife out of my leather backpack. After I saw off the Hitchhiker, I wrapped it up in a black velvet cloth, but it wasn't neat. I was in a hurry. I didn't want to be on the road anymore, or anywhere near the bridge. Seeing the hitchhiker disintegrate didn't scare me. I've seen worse. But this isn't the kind of thing you get used to.

"Jean?"

I snap my head up, and in the mirror, I can see the reflection of my mom, holding the black cat in her arms. I put my blade down on the counter.

"Hey, mom. Sorry to wake you."

She frowns. "You know I like to be up when you come in anyway. You should always wake me, so I can sleep."

I don't bother telling her how dumb that sounds; I just turn on the tap and run the Athame under the cold water.

"I'll do it," she says, and touches my arm. Then she grabs my wrist, and I know she can see the bruises that are starting to purple up all along my forearm.

I expect her to say something motherly; I expect her to quack around like a worried duck for a few minutes. But this time she doesn't. Maybe it's because it's late, and she's tired. Or maybe because after three years she's finally starting to figure out that I'm not going to quit.

"Give it to me," she says, and I do, because most of the black crap has been cleaned off already. When she takes it, she leaves. I know she's off to do her little ritual, which is to boil the blade and then stab it into a big jar of salt, where it will sit under the moon for three days. When she removes it, she'll wipe it down with cinnamon oil and call it as good as new. But she's a Wiccan, so who am I to tell her off?

I exhale and look in the mirror. There are no marks on my face, or on my dress button-up. I look positively ridiculous. I'm dressed in slacks and sleeves like I'm out on a date, because that's what I told Mr. Smith I needed the car for. When I left the house in the afternoon, my hair was combed back stylishly, but after the kerfuffle in the car, it's hanging across my forehead in strands.

"You should hurry up and get to bed, Jean."

My mom is done with the knife, and Levi is twisting around her ankles like a bored fish around a plastic castle.

"I just want to jump in the shower," I say. She sighs and turns away. As my mom leaves, I drop the bomb. "Hey, can I borrow some cash for a new set of tires?"

"Jean Kirschtein," she moans, and I grimace, but her exhausted sigh tells me I'm good to go in the morning.


End file.
